Wayward Dreams
by clonedmemories
Summary: Blaine Anderson is moving up in the world, except all he wants to do is move away from it. AU, set in 1970's growing-town England.


**Wayward Dreams**

**Pairing**: Gen; Blaine/Quinn friendship  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** Socially-accepted sexism. It's the 1970s.

Note:  
_For an extended author's note, see the entry at turnthedarkness on LiveJournal  
_This fic was written for the Glee Reverse Bang, inspired by some beautiful art by himaryan. Again, check the Livejournal post to see it, and I really recommend you do, because it's gorgeous! It is based on the film _Cemetery Junction_ with the inspiration explained in the extended note.

* * *

"_Throw your heart out in front of you and run ahead to catch it_." - Arab proverb

* * *

The first thing Blaine notices is just how out of place he is.

It's not the way he looks. He's shaved, put on his best suit, gelled his hair back the way he does for work every day, and as he looks around the hotel ballroom, everyone else seems to be in similar attire; the men attempting black-tie and the women sparkling in ball gowns, cut-glass glittering at their throats in place of diamonds.

It's the way he feels that makes Blaine uncomfortable. It's the first of what will hopefully be many invitations to the 1973 Winner's Ball, celebrating _the very best amongst the Fabray Life Insurance collective,_ as the invitation had told him, and as he looks around the room he's very aware that everyone else here is a veteran to the event. He's eighteen, fresh out of school – the only one in his family to stay on so long – and bright-eyed, while the rest of the guests seem tired from the social etiquette that Blaine's still very aware he hasn't mastered just yet.

He's seated at the far end of the head table next to Stanley, who is presented with a commemorative punch bowl for 50 years of service to the company before retiring from a faux-enthusiastic Russell Fabray and spends the rest of the evening entertaining Blaine with war stories and what he intends to do upon his retirement. Blaine nods earnestly; the rest of the table don't seem interested, nor do they seem interesting. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mr Fabray at the head of the table, his wife on one side and the mirror image of the girl Blaine presumes is his daughter, Lucy, on the other, poised like a portrait.

Mr Fabray invites the guests to stand to make way for dancing before inviting the band on stage. They're much more modern that Blaine had expected; a drum kit and electric guitars in place of violins, and they even start by playing an Elton John cover.

He stands at the side humming along to the music when Mr Fabray approaches him.

"How are you enjoying the evening, Blaine?"

"Very much, Sir," Blaine responds, again wary of how it still feels wrong to be here. Mr Fabray notices Blaine's discomfort.

"Not your usual crowd, eh? Not to worry. Let's hope we'll see you here next year."

Blaine can't tell whether he's being condescending or not, though he suspects so.

He heads to the hotel bar, deciding that the only thing that will get him through the night is something stronger than the wine spritzers that were served with dinner in an effort, he suspects, by Mr Fabray to uphold the company's reputation after "last time." Blaine's heard the stories – apparently one of the guests became so drunk that he climbed up onto the stage, pulled the microphone away from the singer mid-lyric and proceeded to tell what was meant to be a joke, except for the fact that, well, it wasn't. Ever since the mention of it, Blaine's wanted to know what that was, but all he's managed to find out is that it involved Noddy and the reason he wore a bell on his hat.

The barman serves Blaine a shandy just as someone pulls up close to him. He almost chokes on his first sip in surprise.

"I'll take a Shirley Temple, please," she says, and Blaine realises he's just made a fool of himself in front of Lucy Fabray.

"Enjoying the evening, Miss Fabray?" Blaine offers, extending his hand. She hesitates for a moment before taking it.

"About as much as it's possible to," she says disdainfully, before relaxing. "It's Quinn."

"Your father told me - "

"It's Quinn. You must be my father's newest protégé, or so he thinks. I hope you don't become so, Blaine."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'd hate to see you become the train wreck that he is. Do you have a dream? Ambitions?"

"I can't say I've thought about it too much, but I'd like to travel. I'd like to see what's out there beyond Reading."

"Well, let me tell you that the only place my father has succeeded is in making money. As a father, the less said the better." She sighs before finishing her drink. "Sebastian will be wondering where I am. I'll see you around, Blaine."

* * *

"Good evening, Mrs Fabray. Is it okay if I sit here?"

She looks a little startled; she's sat at the sidelines, watching the dancing passively. Russell is making his way round the room, speaking to those who are also loitering on the edges of the dance floor. Blaine can see her eyes swing between him and Quinn, who's dancing with Sebastian. Both their eyes are closed. He doesn't appear to be enjoying it, just doing it to humour her; his body is stiff, his steps a little awkward, and when he opens his eyes, it's not to look at his fiancée but to stare at the other couples instead, hoping they won't notice.

"Of course. You must be Blaine. My husband has told me all about you."

"I hope he hasn't been saying anything _too_ bad." She laughs and takes another sip of her wine.

"Quite the contrary. He thinks of you as his new protégé. His last was Sebastian and look at where he is now. He thinks you're heading for greatness, Blaine. It's a shame we don't have another daughter for you to marry, he says."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he liked Sebastian so much that he introduced him to our Quinn, and when they seemed to be getting on, he set it all up for Sebastian to propose to her. But he's been acting a little strangely, lately. Quinn doesn't seem too happy either."

Blaine doesn't know what to say, so takes another sip of his drink as Mrs Fabray sighs.

"It'll all work out eventually, right?"

"I think everything has a way of working out in the end, Mrs Fabray. Now, would you care to accompany me for the next dance?"

"Blaine, I'd love to, but - "

"When was the last time you got to dance?"

She pauses for a moment. "At my wedding."

Blaine pats her hand gently. "Would you like to dance with me tonight? You said you'd love to. Come on. The next song's just about to start."

Just as the band strike the first chord, Blaine leads her out onto the dance floor, their half-finished drinks left on the table. He places his hand on her waist, takes the other and counts through basic waltz steps in his head. He had never been taught to dance at home like Quinn and Sebastian seem to have been; his own father lacks the co-ordination, balance and affection for his mother to have ever bothered, not assuming these were the social circles his son might have ended up in – who would have needed to learn to dance traditionally if they were going to be working in a factory for the rest of their lives? Instead, Blaine had taken a book out of the library, attempted to pick up the basic steps without a partner and practised in his bedroom every night for a week. His father laughed at him, both for the way he improvised awkwardly without a partner and for the very fact that Blaine had needed to learn to dance this way in the first place. However, it feels less awkward as he relaxes into it, gently trying to guide Mrs Fabray between the other couples, spinning her beneath his arm, and she's smiling a sweet, genuine smile that Blaine's happy to see.

"Excuse me, Mr Anderson, do you mind if I take over?"

Sebastian reaches over and breaks their hold.

"Of course, Mr Smythe, as long as I may have a dance with your lovely fiancée?"

"I suppose that's a fair trade-off, but one dance only. Then we can swap back, can't we?" He places his arm around Quinn's shoulders a little too tight. "I hope you're not trying to steal her, Mr Anderson."

Blaine laughs, a little uncomfortably. "No, no. Of course not."

"Good."

* * *

As Blaine takes Quinn in hold, he can see how uncomfortable Mrs Fabray seems in Sebastian's arms. His movements are awkward and somewhat vacuous. There's no emotion to them, not like any of the other couples surrounding them. Even Quinn is smiling at him.

"Can I tell you a secret? You're a much better dancer than Sebastian. I don't think he enjoys it very much."

"Strange. I wonder why that might be."

"My mother said once that everything he does makes him look like he's hiding something."

"What would he be hiding?"

"No idea."

They dance together, willing the music to pick up so that their movement can be livelier than the dancing they used to do at year seven socials with the old hands-round-waists-and-sway movement. Quinn pulls him into a ballroom hold instead, and begins to swing him round. The people closest turn to stare at them where they're laughing, and Blaine sees Sebastian's grip tighten on Mrs Fabray's shoulder when the music stops.

"Thank you, Judy. It was my pleasure." Sebastian goes to kiss her hand, but Blaine notices how his lips only touch his own thumb across her fingers within the show of affection as he and Quinn move back towards their former partners.

"Would you like another dance, Mrs Fabray?" Blaine asks.

"No. No, thank you."

"Come on, Quinn. I think it's time we calm down a little after that excitement." Sebastian leads her away.

* * *

"And a very good morning to you, too."

Blaine stops, his hands half-reaching for the coat rack so he can hang up his suit jacket before dealing with it properly when he wakes up.

"What's the matter? Did the old posh twats bore you into becoming a mute for the rest of your life? Or are you tired out from all your fancy-pants dancing?"

Even without seeing him, Blaine can tell his father is rolling his eyes sarcastically at the thought as he always does when making fun of Blaine and his ambitions. He throws the jacket over his arm instead and meets his father in the living room. There's a beer in his hand, a little over half-drunk, and the clock next to him tells Blaine that it's gone two in the morning; his father can't have slept.

"What are you doing up so late, Dad?"

"Waiting for you to come home."

"Well, I'm home now."

His father doesn't say anything. He stands up, inspects Blaine, then leaves, his bottle of beer abandoned on the floor. Blaine can hear him walking up the whispering staircase and the door in his bedroom slam a little too hard.

* * *

Blaine can't sleep. His eyes are aching and his feet are sore from dancing and everything else aches like grey, but his mind is bright, too bright.

He can't stop thinking about Quinn's question. He'd answered so casually, like the words were speaking some kind of untold future, but his life is perfectly fine as it is, isn't it? He's steadily climbing the social ladder, as the ball had shown him, and he has a great job and a family that love him, and that's great. That's all he needs.

But then he thinks about it more. Is there really satisfaction in owning a nice little house, a job with a reasonable income and stuck in a circle of black-tie dinners and cocktails made to varying degrees of success? Will he ever be able to dance properly without being reminded of his father, standing in the bedroom door and laughing at him? Will one of the many nameless, faceless girls dancing with him in his mind one day become his glittering wife who is as hollow as he feels now?

* * *

The next morning, Blaine shuffles through various pieces of paper in his desk drawer until he finds a particular one that has been in the back of his mind.

He unfolds the newspaper cutting with care, and remembers seeing it for the first time: a report from the UK Pride Rally, the first ever. He had looked on at the television with jealousy, his family with indifference. They wouldn't care, but somehow he suspects the rest of the people he interacts with through work would be less accepting. The law changed less than a decade ago; it can take much longer to change an attitude.

He remembers Quinn dancing with an uncaring Sebastian last night, and he laughs a little once he realises exactly why Sebastian must have hated it so much – how can you when you don't even have a physical attraction to your partner, let alone an emotional one? But he stops quickly; his mind is full of too many _what ifs...?_

* * *

"How did you enjoy the Winner's Ball, Blaine?"

Sebastian has walked into his office uninvited and taken a seat on his desk. Blaine looks up from the paperwork and wants to say something about his positioning, especially when there's two chairs right in front of the desk as it is, but decides against it. He's already been asked this question six times today, including twice by Mr Fabray himself.

"I enjoyed it a lot, thank you, Sebastian."

He returns to his paperwork, but can't concentrate; Sebastian is drumming his fingers on his desk.

"It seemed like you particularly enjoyed dancing with my lovely fiancée, Lucy."

"Well, she's a very lovely person. You're very lucky to have her, Sebastian."

Again, Blaine picks up his pen and places it on the paper to begin writing before Sebastian asks the next question.

"What do you mean by that, Blaine? I trust you're not trying to steal her from me. I did tell you when I let her dance with you - "

"She's no-one's property, Sebastian. Quinn can make her own decisions. However, no, I have no wish to steal her from you. She's simply a good friend of mine whose company I enjoy. I dare say she can be the same to you once you're married."

"Are you implying anything there, Blaine?"

"Of course not." Blaine looks up and smiles. Sebastian stares at him for a few moments before leaving, deliberately shutting the door on the way; it had been open before.

* * *

Blaine's walking home from work and daydreaming. He'd decided to take a detour through Forbury to use the time to make going-away plans. London, Paris, Rome; it's one big cliché, but it's one he's becoming more and more fixated on, and he can't help but fantasise.

He jumps when he feels a hand on his arm.

"Hey, Quinn," he says, turning round and noting it's her.

"Care to join me, Blaine Anderson?"

He takes the seat on the bench next to her, but doesn't say anything. Quinn stays silent as well. The weather is overcast, somewhere in the void between winter and spring, and it feels like it should be raining. Blaine notes how Quinn's taking the last chance to have a cigarette before it starts and all he can do is sit there and feel animosity radiate from her. The smoke copies the way she's slouched on the bench in a dress that doesn't fit her quite right.

"Do your parents know you smoke?"

"No idea. I don't think so, as my father would probably have made me stop if he knew. He can talk. He still uses cigars."

Blaine laughs, and for a moment it lightens the atmosphere.

"It's true. Next time you're in his office, take a look on the desk. See what you find. He thinks they make him look more professional."

"Oh, he does that all by himself. Your father is a very professional businessman." Quinn can't tell if Blaine's being sarcastic or not, his tone is so sincere.

"And it appears Sebastian is heading in the same way, and if my father has his wish, I'll be exactly like my mother. Perfectly lovely, sweet, polite – unnervingly so, don't you think, Blaine?" Blaine doesn't reply. He doesn't know what to say, or where Quinn is heading with this.

"You don't have to say anything; I know. She's changed. She used to tell me stories of when she was younger. She went to Holy Jo's and on their last day of school, to rebel against the nuns, she persuaded them all to dress up as St. Trinian's girls, complete with wire pigtails. The nuns were furious." Blaine laughs, a little uneasy, like the child waiting for the moral of a fable.

"Does that surprise you, Blaine? Could you imagine her doing anything like that now? My father's gone and moulded her into some kind of trophy bride to show off at parties and to house guests. She just serves the tea, or the coffee, or the alcohol, then steps back, just as she should. I don't want to be like that, Blaine. I don't want to be Sebastian's plaything. I want to have fun and dance and not be held down by anything. I love my mother, but the last thing I would ever want to do is become her."

The silence hangs in the air with Quinn's cigarette smoke.

"Quinn, what's your dream?"

"What?"

"That night we met, at the Winner's Ball, you asked me if I had a dream and I told you I wanted to travel, but you never told me yours. What do you want to do with your life? Ignore your father, ignore everything else. Think in the ideal. What do you want?"

She pauses for a moment, takes a draw on her near burnt-out cigarette.

"I want to be a photographer. I even turned my cupboard into a dark room. My dad thinks it's just a hobby."

"We could do it together, you know? Travel, see the world, and you can take photographs as we do. I doubt Reading compares as a location to, I don't know, Ireland, or France, or those romantic cities in Italy - "

"But Blaine, I'm engaged! Sebastian is my fiancé! What do you expect me to do? Just drop everything like that and run away with another man?"

"He would."

"What is that even supposed to mean, Blaine?"

"Run away with another man. Come on, Quinn! He's definitely in the closet."

"How can you even say that?"

"Because I am as well." She waits for a moment, her mouth slightly open, her eyes glassy. She doesn't say anything. Blaine gives a small smile. "See, I'm no competition to him."

Quinn laughs, and the sound is harsh. "Look at me, Blaine. Trapped by a father who's trapped himself in the nineteen-fifties, by a mother who'll do nothing to stop him or else and I've just found out my fiancé is a damn closet case? I need another cigarette."

She lights another, shivers a little in the breeze.

"I'm serious, Quinn. We could both go home, pack our bags and be on a train away from here in, what, two hours? You don't have to do this to yourself any more. You could leave it all and live your dream, take all the photographs you can. And when we get back, you could sell them, or enter competitions or something."

"You've never even seen the pictures I've taken, Blaine."

"Why don't you show me?"

* * *

She takes him back to her house, to the side of Reading he's never had the need to go before. The houses across Caversham Bridge are newer and much larger than anything Blaine's ever known growing up on Oxford Road. The hallway is magnolia-painted, the carpet colour spotless and seemingly almost identical. The most prominent feature of the whole room is the painting on the wall, which seems to be of the family themselves. Judging by how old Quinn appears to be, it seems to have been done about ten years ago, and Blaine is reminded of how she looked when he first saw her at the ball, all still and poised and perfect. There's something different about Mrs Fabray as well, though he can't quite work out what before she greets him, smiling the same, strangely sad smile she always seems to have.

Blaine looks back towards the painting for a moment. The brilliance in her eyes has faded. Even in the picture, he can still see the echoes of the girl who would get her whole class to dress as Searle-esque school children.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Fabray," Blaine greets her, trying to lighten the mood.

Her smile widens a little, but doesn't seem to reach her eyes.

"We're heading upstairs, mum."

"Your father and Sebastian are at a meeting, but they'll be back shortly for dinner, so don't be too long up there."

Blaine follows Quinn up the stairs to her bedroom. The walls are the same shade of magnolia, the bed sheets pale blue. It feels almost temporary. The only hint of personality is a small notice board, which is covered in photographs.

"Are these yours?" he asks, but knows the answer without hearing it.

He's already drawn to examining the photographs; actions shots of girls laughing together on the park bench, two friends walking beneath the Forbury bandstand, even one of Quinn herself, trying to emulate one of those fifties' pin-ups his friends like so much, cigarette smoke curling around her face.

"They're amazing," he breathes.

"Do you want to see my dark room?"

"Okay."

She opens a door that looks as if it would lead to a wardrobe, and perhaps it once did, Blaine thinks as he steps inside after her. It's small, only room enough for the two of them to stand comfortably without being cramped, and smells of chemicals he can match no name to. For some reason, it reminds him of when he used to play Seven Minutes In Heaven at teenage birthday parties, just like in the movies he would save up to see. He laughs at the thought.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing. It's just really, really strange."

"I'm going to close the door, show you what it's like when it's really dark."

"Is this when you offer to show me what you really do with these pegs?" he asks her, his eyebrow cocked.

She snorts softly. "Just thought you should know that you can't be in the closet unless the door is closed, Blaine."

He rolls his eyes before laughing at the way she smirks.

* * *

"I hear from your father that you've become very good friends with Blaine Anderson." Quinn can't tell Sebastian's tone; is he looking for a confrontation, or simply curious?

"Does that matter?"

"That depends on the answer you give."

"Okay, yes. Blaine and I are friends. I don't see how that matters, though."

"Let's just say that I don't think it will do good for my image in the company if my fiancée is seen with other men. When your father retires, I'm going to be the one in his office - "

"He says you've already chosen the wallpaper."

"I have. It's a William Morris reproduction. And it's one I won't be able to use unless I maintain my image to the others in the company."

"So what you're saying is that you don't want me to be friends with Blaine?"

"No, no, of course not. He's clearly not any kind of threat -, " Quinn notes the slight discomfort in his voice, and does her best to keep from smirking, " – but the point still stands that it doesn't do me any good when people see the woman who is to be my future wife getting so friendly with another man. So just, well, be careful."

She can hear how he hesitates at how to finish the sentence and sees how his whole body slackens when he smiles after speaking, and she works it out.

"My father put you up to this, didn't he?"

His red-alarm expression gives the answer away, no matter how many denials he splutters out afterwards.

"It's okay, Sebastian. Replace 'fiancée' with 'daughter' in everything you've just said and it works out just the same. But Blaine and I are friends. And I'm not prepared to give that up."

* * *

Blaine and Quinn are sat on the floor of Quinn's bedroom and giggling. There are old issues of National Geographic surrounding them on the floor of Quinn's bedroom and Quinn is reading the captions of the pictures in an overly-stressed form of stereotyped Received Pronunciation.

"_Thick unadorned walls assure a calm, cool spot for meditation in a mosque dedicated to Sidi Bou-Gdemma, 11th century founder of Ghardaia. Algeria,"_ she reads, trying her best to wrap her tongue around the names.

"It does look rather beautiful, if a little stark," Blaine says, leaning over to look at the picture in more detail.

A few pages on, they find an image of some stone carvings at a place called Timgad, and Blaine does his best to imitate the face of the right-hand figure, going cross-eyed and pursing his lips to give the impression of what he can't make out as either a moustache or lips. Quinn reaches over to the desk, quickly grabs her Polaroid camera and takes a picture. As soon as it develops, she snorts. Blaine grabs it from her and glares at her in mock-anger before laughing with her.

"We could go, you know? Do it for real. Live our dreams together."

"What, to Algeria?"

"Maybe. Perhaps start with Europe first, but then who knows? We could go anywhere, really." Quinn looks at him, her eyes wide at the sincerity in his voice. "Seriously, Quinn - "

"Blaine - "

"I mean it. I can see how you're unhappy with Sebastian. Do you really want to be stuck as an arm-piece for him for the rest of your life?"

"It's not like that, Blaine - "

"It certainly looks like it. It would be so easy, to just drop everything and go."

"You don't understand. You think my father would really let me break off an engagement to go running around the world with another guy?"

"Then don't tell him!"

"Blaine, I can't - "

"So you want to end up like your mother? A trophy wife?"

There's a pause, and then –

"Get out, Blaine."

He doesn't move.

"You cannot just say that about my mother. Get out."

Blaine can't decide whether she's about to cry or throw something at him

"Okay, fine. But think about it. I'm leaving tomorrow. There's a train at ten-to-twelve to London, and I'm going to be getting on it. You could be coming with me, if you still want to. It's probably your only chance, Quinn."

He doesn't allow her to respond before leaving. She doesn't know what she would have said anyway.

* * *

Blaine places his suitcase by the front door, ready to leave the next morning.

"What you got in there, Blaine?" his father asks, placing a hand on the corner of it absent-mindedly.

"Not much. Clothes, mainly."

"What the question implied was where are you going? What have you packed this 'not much' for?"

"I'm going travelling. Like I said I was."

"Never knew you had any definite plans. I always thought it was just another one of those little fantasies of yours."

His father removes his hand, and Blaine notices the dusty print left where it had been, probably the last echoes of his day at the factory.

"Well, it's happening. I'm going with Quinn, Mr Fabray's daughter, if she wants."

"Eloping, it sounds like."

"If I was eloping, Dad, it wouldn't be with a girl, that's for sure."

Blaine looks directly at his father, searching his face for any sign of a reaction. When he smiles, there's a sudden release of elastic energy.

"Just as long as you're still going to send me some of those French postcards, if you know what I mean," he says, elbowing Blaine jovially.

"If I go to Paris, that is!"

"You'll go to Paris. You always talked about going to Paris. Come on, come and have dinner, and you can tell us all about your travel plans, if you have any at all!"

* * *

They're sitting at the breakfast table the next morning – Quinn, her mother, her father and Sebastian. The latter two have their heads fixed on their newspapers. They don't look up when her mother places a fresh pot of coffee on the table with two mugs, and Quinn notices the look of resignation on her mother's face.

"What time do we make it?" Sebastian asks.

"Nine-thirty," Quinn tells him. He folds down his newspaper, addresses Mr Fabray.

"I guess I'd better be off, then. See you at the office, Sir."

He turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, Quinn calls out, "have a nice day, Sebastian."

"Oh, yeah. Bye." His response tells her all she needs to make up her mind.

* * *

Her mother comes and joins her in her bedroom, where she's staring out of the window.

"Whatever you decide to do, just know that it'll be fine."

"I'm going to marry Sebastian," she tells her. Her mother is not convinced.

"Fine. Well, that's good then. That's settled. So what if he doesn't like dancing, or girls? Your father doesn't like dancing either. I'm sure he'll give you everything you need to be a good wife."

They turn to each other and smile.

* * *

They pack her suitcase in five minutes.

"Oh, and by the way, it was five years ago."

"What?"

"The last time your father thanked me for his coffee in the morning."

Her mother laughs, almost sarcastically, before hugging Quinn.

"You go, sweetheart. Live your life the way you want to."

Quinn's grip on the suitcase tightens. She glances at the clock. The train leaves in fifteen minutes.

"Let's go."

She runs down the stairs, her mother following behind.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

Her father stops her in the hallway. He's doing up his suit jacket for work and is smiling, self-gratified.

"She's in a hurry. Let her go. I'll explain later," her mother tells him.

"No, you'll explain to me now when I ask you a question in my own house. I said where are you going?"

"And I said let her go."

* * *

Blaine is sat on the train at 11.46 with his bags packed, wages in pocket and ticket on the table in front of him. The train is heading for London in four minutes, and after that, anywhere.

He taps out a rhythm on the table and waits for Quinn to arrive. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn't want to go alone. This is about Quinn's dream. Not just his own.

* * *

At 11.49, Blaine steps off the train.

He sighs.

Does Quinn not want to be free anymore? Has she given up? Or is there someone else stopping her from joining him?

For whatever reason, he knows that he can't leave her behind like this.

* * *

Quinn is running with only a minute to spare. Her suitcase is cradled in her arms and her hair is swinging behind her. Her breath tastes sickly and dry against the back of her throat.

She rounds the corner to find the train ready to go on the platform. It starts to move. The hand of the clock on the platform turns to 11.50. And Blaine is stood beneath it.

Wordlessly, they begin to run along the platform. The train hasn't picked up speed yet and they could still get on it if they try, if they really try. Blaine reaches over to catch on the door handle and swings it open, pushes Quinn inside as the train starts to go faster and she has to pull him into the carriage, and they're laughing, laughing and free and on their way.

They take seats and a moment to catch their breath again.

"You came." Blaine smiles. Quinn can only laugh breathlessly in response, each meeting of their eyes drawing forth even more laughter. One of the other passengers in the carriage turns around and stares at them, smiles faintly, then turns away again to stare out of the window at the passing houses.

"I don't know why we ran. There's another train in an hour."


End file.
